Where Worlds Collide - HPDresden Files
by AlbusPHolmes
Summary: Cowl doesn't like the idea of his old teacher's toys getting in the wrong hands. In a bid to keep one of Kemmler's most dangerous writings away from those who would misuse its power, he hides in a place they'll never find - another universe. Only, he neglects to think that world might have scavengers of its own.


A/N: Just something born from one of the challenges in the Fight Club thread on DLP. Someone suggested I write a duel featuring Voldemort vs Cowl. I tossed the idea around a little bit and started writing, and it grew out of proportion as I kept adding and adding to it. It's not Skin Games affiliated, so don't get your hopes up. I haven't decided where in the DF series this takes place, but I'll update as soon as I'm sure. Probably somewhere after slightly before or after Dead Beat, but don't quote me on that.

I plan on wrapping it up quickly. Characters like the Gatekeeper and McCoy might feature from DFverse, alongside the principal cast from HPverse.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

The insides of the icy cavern glimmered with a strange mix of white and blue, trapped light shining from underneath jutting crystals that had not seen sunlight in eons. They sat at diagonals to each other, some as tall as a man and some taller still. The points and jagged edges on all of them were as sharp as the keenest Goblin-forged blades.

Some glittered like diamonds. Each burned with a hideous, roiling cold that would have frozen a polar bear dead in mere minutes, and the protruding bones of carcasses half trapped in underneath glacial ice bore witness to this. It was easily evident to the few unfortunate souls to have ever lain eyes here that it wasn't a simple working of the universe - nothing meticulously carved out by the passage of time.

The spires were arrayed a perfect circle in the center of the vast, silent grotto. The glacial floor spread before him, as flat as any floor made by man, and the whole setup was too neat to have ever been crafted by the wild vagaries of nature itself.

The natives who lived miles away from the place called it the Devil's Touch when they huddled under layers of seal skin and warmed their hands on feeble fires, for it brought death to any who dared to ventured close - without fail.

Yet Lord Voldemort had persevered.

He stood in the middle of the circular fortress formed by the spires, and neither they nor the cold, nor eldritch magicks forged by unknown hands dared keep from him the prize that was his to take. He stood motionless, pale arms clasped behind him, and only the soft puffs of vapor as he breathed told that he was alive.

Months of searching finally culminated in this.

The Dark Lord allowed himself a thin smile as he gazed upon the dusty tome sitting atop a pedestal of carved, black ice. It just sat there on the runic-carved stage, deceptively ready for the taking, but the reddened gash on his forearm that refused to heal despite his attempts indicated otherwise. He ignored the dull twinges of pain from the wound.

Yes, it would be prudent to exercise patience. And caution. A scythe of crimson magic had nearly taken his entire arm off the last time he acted too hastily.

The wards on the book were potent, definitely, but even more than that they were intricately crafted with an artistry even he could admire, and the magic behind them was quite unlike anything he had come across before.

It had taken hours of brute-force, crude dismantling and some brilliant guesswork to even summon the plinth from beneath the feet of ice beneath which it lay, but he could almost sense the number of protections lessening, giving way.

Heinrich Kemmler, whoever the man was, was a genius and a bloodthirsty one at that. Some of the safeguards were as vicious as they were beautiful.

Voldemort's scalp tingled uncomfortably as he traced an intricate pattern in the air, a phantom sensation trickling down his neck. Had his sweat glands not being rendered nonexistent with his recent,_ transcendence, _he knew his face would be drenched in sweat despite the plummeting temperatures.

The air around the icy plinth shimmered, radiating heat as his power wrestled with an unseen enchantment, then something give way. With a look of grim satisfaction, he began to trace his wand through in a slow, almost musical fashion, muttering an eerie enchantment under his breath.

His skin tingled as he felt a subtle resistance - an invisible barrier pressing against his spell - and he took a step back and whispered—

"_Detego."_

Slowly, flickering green dots began to appear - linking up as more and more were revealed - taking shape in a dense, square meshwork, like a cage around the plinth. Under his influence they gradually solidified into sharp, distinct lines, with a bright green glow a shade darker than the emerald of the Killing Curse.

Voldemort took a moment to breathe, and allowed his eyes to drift to the sigils that ringed the sides of the pedestal.

It had taken him minutes to decipher that they were not ornamental. They were a guide, clues as to what the protections were and what they did, and the order in which to bring them down. Fortunate that they were done in a hieroglyph system he was familiar, a bastardized mix of ancient Mayan runes and some more esoteric Babylonian scripts.

Only two remained, which meant two more wards—

_Three small leaves, swept by arcs of wind_ - a depiction of breath, _life_.

_A simple sphere with rays jutting outwards from the surface_ - the sun - a common representation for the forces of arcana magicka.

Which meant this cage had something to do with magic.

Without further deliberation, Voldemort flicked his wand, and the simple yellow jet of the Unlocking Charm rushed out and struck the magical construct. Without waiting to see what effect the spell wrought, he twisted on his feet and disapparated out of range of any potential repercussion.

He materialized a few yards safely away, wand at the ready in case he had to act again, and surveyed the area to see what devious trap the cagelike ward concealed this time.

Nothing had happened. The ward flickered and pulsed, innocent. The ground around the pedestal wasn't cracked or scorched with black fire. No blades of vicious wind stirred, ready to take his head off and no voices rose from the dead in a pitiable attempt to torment him. If anything - the Dark Lord narrowed his eyes, focussing his preternatural eyesight - the matrix of green lines seemed to glow just a fraction brighter than before...

A twist of his wrist sent a cone of purple howling forth, and it dissipated inches away from the ward.

The lines of green pulsed brighter still. Voldemort's eye narrowed at this new quandary.

Interesting.

With a mere flick of his wand, a wasp took form out of nothing. Tiny wings buzzed furiously and the subzero cold did not perturb the insect as it awaited his will. He directed it through an opening in the ward forward with another flick, attempting to maneuver its aerodynamic form precisely through the small gaps in the protection but it only got so far before inevitably veering too close to one of thrumming lines. There was a tiny sizzle and a puff of smoke and the conjuration winked out at once, the magic keeping it together undone.

The section of lines where it vanished flared a bright electric-green, before the light diffused quic_kly. _

Crimson eyes flashed with satisfaction. The conundrum had been solved.

The ward, crudely put, ate magic.

Voldemort smiled. As fortune would have it, he had encountered magic of this kind before. Conquered it, in the underground basalt crypts of the Yucatán, but that was a tale for another time.

He paced around the magical cage, his hands clasped behind him, crimson eyes analysing, his brilliant mind already scheming.

Several possibilities presented themselves. He could unravel the ward, but that would take too much time. Simply overpowering it with magic until the circuits that drank it in were overwhelmed would also work, but the inevitable backlash was likely to be far less than pleasant. And, besides, brute force was an unrefined solution to such an elegant problem.

Yes, another far simpler alternative existed.

A hand slipped into the folds of his silky black robes as he came to a stop, and spindly fingers curled around the cold handle of a dagger. He pulled it out, and his eyes slid down its length, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship.

It had a simple gleaming silver blade, its edge thin and keen, attached to a burnished bronze handle worked in the figure of a woman, her belly gaunt and hollowed out as if she was drawing in a long tortured breath. Her face wreathed in frozen agony and her arms wrapped around the sides of the blade as if she was trying to swallow it.

The workmanship was stunning, rendered in almost lifelike detail, but what truly mattered was that the dagger had no enchantments on it whatsoever. No sorcery was used in making it, no charms rendered its edge sharper than was normal.

It was for all intents and purposes, ordinary.

And perfect for his purpose tonight. The ward, despite its magical nature, was exactly like one of those laughable steel wire-linked fences muggles trusted to keep their homes safe. Which meant it could be cut away like one. And since it leached at anything magic like a sponge, an unenchanted knife would work beautifully.

"Come," Voldemort whispered in a high, cold voice.

Behind him, lying sprawled on the luminous ice floor, a huddled mass of limbs and thin robes stirred. A pitiful figure climbed shakily to his feet, robes frozen stiff with frost, eyes glassy and unfocused, will brutally subsumed under the Imperius. He staggered forward, his lean form shivering violently and his lips dangerously blue with cold.

Voldemort watched him, his face dispassionate. A wizard who had leaked information about his smuggling routes to the Ministry, and was now learning firsthand the price for such betrayal. His family was already dead, and he would join them before the day was out, but now he lived yet a while longer to serve one more worthy purpose.

Blank brown eyes quivered, and the muscles in his neck trembled. A tiny sliver of resistance remained, the Dark Lord could almost sense it, but it was as brief and pathetic as it was futile.

"Kneel."

There was a small tremor as the man's knees crashed to the floor in obeisance, and tiny cracks radiated out from the impact. The man's robes offered no protection against the surging waves of enchanted cold, but his body was unfeeling as he accepted the blade from the Voldemort's outstretched hand without question.

"Retrieve the book."

It was an order that was heeded without objection. The wizard stumbled to the foot of the pedestal and began to saw away. Against the sharpness of the dagger, the ward crackled, spitting angry green sparks that scorched away at the man's face where they landed, but he didn't cease his movement and the bars finally gave way like dry, brittle sticks to a saw. There was a dying snap and sputter and the entire ward fell in motes of green that winked out with a tiny sizzles as they drifted down to the ice.

A slight gust of wind stirred Voldemort's robes around his ankles as he idly spun his wand through his long fingers. The book now lay there, unprotected, vulnerable and ready for the taking.

"Bring it," he hissed softly.

The dagger clinked loudly as it fell to the floor, and with emaciated arms trembling from the cold, the man grasped the book with both hands and tugged. Years of ice and cold had frozen the book to the surface of the pedestal but it came away with little fuss. The black-haired wizard shambled to his feet, the book clutched tightly in his hands and close to his chest like a precious prize.

He took one faltering step towards the Dark Lord, then two, before stiffening.

A soft black smoke curled up from his hands. He cocked his head at the sight in dumb fascination, his mind broken and uncomprehending, and his nose twitched at the sudden acrid smell of burning flesh rose up from his fingers—

The voices were deep into Voldemort's mind before he even felt it - not horrific visions and frantic whispers of doom and impending death he did not fear, but hungry tendrils of sweet decay and the satisfying chill of dead flesh this time - the sort of eerie howling coldness that always accompanied the Killing Curse, only somehow more comforting, more silent and alluring. Peace, glory, power, all he could ever want, and all he had to do was stay still and let it hold him—

_A mental intrusion!_

With a snarl, Voldemort drew on Occlumency perfected over years of practice to seal his mind, snapping it around his thoughts like a psychic cage. Nothing. The insidious force remained, now sliding through the creases of his mind like cool, thick oil, parting around his mental barriers like little streams, and despite his efforts he couldn't stop it, seal it out —

_Truth, knowledge, power is what we give_, a sensual voice sang.

Motes of cold dark-blue lights spun and blinked before his eyes, more frigid than anything in the cave, but fascinating, enticing as they caressed close to his skin, down his scalp, cooling his blood, spreading numbness in their path—

_Pure, infinite release is what we_—

It was using the Imperius as a conduit!

Voldemort hissed as he gathered his consciousness and wrenched it free from the sibilant influence. The backlash sent him staggering—

And a thin, piercing howl shook the ice.

The prisoner screamed, thrashing and flailing uncontrollably as his whole being erupted with white-hot pain. He was burning. Black flames of necromantic energy raced up his arms to his torso, turning the flesh skeletal and white as plaster in its wake, and he let out another earsplitting scream as they began to crumble to dust.

Voldemort took a step back, his own safety paramount as he watched as the wizard was consumed by the unnatural fire. The man staggered towards him, cadaverous face contorted in agony, death reflected in the horrified pools of his eyes, lips drawn back in a helpless plea...

Voldemort's eyes were cold and impassionate as he raised his wand, seeking to finish the job himself—

There was one last gasp as the man collapsed to the ground in a cloud of dust. Then he was gone. Just like that - white ashes swept away on the swirling eddies of an invisible wind.

The book thudded to the ground, faint dusky energies swirling and seeping into its fluttering pages with a _swoosh!_

Voldemort lowered his wand, his chest rising and falling softly. The short struggle for his mind had not hurt him, but it had left him winded. Only a small ringing sound echoed in his ears, rendering everything strangely mute, but even that faded slowly away, and clarity returned.

He gazed at the book with pensive eyes, a new-found appreciation for the dangerous power woven into its pages. It was a horcrux, or something very similar to it.

He gave his wand an elegant flourish and a starry enchanted sphere wrapped around the book, lifting it up gently to float in the air. He slipped a pair of dragonhide gloves over his skeletal hands before taking the book delicately by the spine. At once necromantic energies attempted to leach at his hands, but the protections on his gloves held, and he turned the book over.

It was more of a manuscript upon closer inspection, pages upon pages filled with elegantly handwritten notes and equations and theories, the central theme of which bespoke death and the power to be drawn from it.

Even more curiously, the grimoire was distinctly muggle in its design, and not too old by the looks of it. Meaning it had only been placed here recently…

Voldemort's mouth tightened in speculation as he turned it over to the cover. Whereas the rest of the writing in the book was neat, the title seemed hastily scrawled down in what looked like - dried blood?

_Das Blut der Kemmler._

_The Blood of Kemmler._

_Most interesting._ Voldemort slipped the book into a dragonhide bound case and layered a number of complex protections over it. It was the least he could do now. They would suffice until he reached Malfoy Manor and had time to unravel the spells on the dangerous book.

It was time to go. Without a further glance at the cave the Dark Lord spun on his feet, his dark robes twisting around his form, and was sucked into void.

* * *

A spray of cool, salt-laden air was the first thing to greet Lord Voldemort as he appeared on the shores of the English Channel, along the south coast of Dover. Wiltshire, and the Malfoy Manor, was further inland, but the Ministry was keeping an annoyingly tight watch on apparition across long distances. He would have to travel a bit further before making the jump, where his apparition signature would be lost amongst the hundreds that happened at any point in time.

The tide was low, and small waves lapped half-heartedly against the jutting black rocks on the shore. Across the horizon the sun was just setting, throwing a soft corona of orange light across the slowly churning surface of the Pacific.

Loose sand from the beach hardened into the steep incline of a weed-choked promontory, climbing to form a small hillock. The roof of a lonely shack peered from just atop it, black, wet and built from rotting wood, to all appearances abandoned and unsuitable for living in and a few wooden planks set into side of the hill made for an easier climb, not that he needed it. A yellow sign stuck halfway in the ground said Keep Away: Danger of Collapse and a layer of muggle repulsion charms and other, far less benign protections completed the cover-up.

Prying noses would not venture too close.

The inside of the shack was much more comfortable than the foreboding exterior suggested. It served as a docking station of sorts, and held supplies such as brooms, potions and food for his Death Eaters in case they had to make an overnight stop or a quick getaway.

Sand churned underneath his bare feet in a cloud of billowing black ink, and a wind kicked up as Voldemort began to fly. That's when he felt it, in a short distance behind him. A furious rip at the fabric of time and space not unlike the distortion caused by apparition. Voldemort spun around smoothly, his mind whirring.

Who dared?_ Dumbledore? The Ministry?_

A tattered gash appeared in the air, the edges glowing hot-yellow as if someone had thrust a hot knife into a fabric. There was a howling screech as it widened, and Voldemort caught a gust of frigid wind and snowy wasteland in the crack before someone stepped through. His eyes narrowed, and his yew wand leapt into his palm, its warm length a reassuring presence as he looked to see who the newcomer was.

Yet the figure that stepped out wore neither the scarlet robes used by the Aurors nor the flamboyant colors favored by the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

He was a man by the wide set of his shoulders, and tall too, dressed in long black robes with a long black cape and a big black mantle. The black ensemble flared into a wide hood that obscured anything of his face, showing only pools of shadow within. In one gloved hand he held a staff, like ones favored by the warlocks of Africa, and his other hand curled into a fist as he spat a word.

The split the figure had come through zipped shut and then vanished entirely, as it had never been there.

Voldemort tapped his wand lightly against his knee in anticipation, his mind was a minefield of speculation as the figure strode forward with no trace of fear in the world.

It had to be a wizard, that much was certain, but the depth of wandless magic the shadowy figure had just displayed was unlike anything he had ever encountered before. His own talents in that area of magic was not modest, but the ability to close portals with a hand gesture was something beyond any wizard, even the likes of him and Dumbledore.

Unless it was a parlor trick, Voldemort narrowed his eyes, a wand simply hidden under a sleeve to produce wandless magic in an attempt to intimidate—

But even as the figure came to a stop from a few yards away, Voldemort cancelled that train of thought. He could sense power, quite a good amount of it, and it gave him pause. It bespoke of a greater mystery than met the eye, and Voldemort was wary and content enough to let it play out.

"You have stolen something of mine," spoke the figure. His voice was odd, distinctly male, but there was a inhuman quality to it that Voldemort recognized, warbling slither to the words that demanded they be spoken slowly and carefully to be intelligible. "I will see it returned."

Voldemort caressed a finger against outline of the book in his pocket, and his mouth curled with amusement.

"Heinrich Kemmler, I presume?"

"Kemmler is dead," the man replied in that same outre voice, without the hint of an accent. "You may call me Cowl."

Voldemort's pale chalk lips curled up in amusement as he eyed the stranger. "Cowl. And what gives you the audacity to presume to command I, Lord Voldemort?"

"Voldemort," Cowl mused, and beneath that dark hood Voldemort could sense a smirk. "Flight from death - an interesting choice of name." He held out an open palm. "Now, if you please, the book."

"And what gives you more right to it than I?"

Cowl shrugged. "The right of might, I suppose." There was more than a hint of condescension about the way he changed his stance. "Now, be a dear and surrender the book nicely."

Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, and a soft wind ruffled his robes in a visible sign of his displeasure. The lazy sense of authority and magnanimity behind the stranger's words told of someone accustomed to being obeyed, and that the stranger dared use that tone of voice with him drew forth his ire.

"Are you threatening me?" he asked, in a low, dangerous voice.

Cowl laughed, then his voice hardened. "My time is valuable, creature. I will not ask again. The Book."

Voldemort's lips oozed into a thin smile. The night had taxed his patience to its limits, and he was in the mood to vent.

Cowl's eyes widened as the reptile-faced thief vanished without a further word, then he felt skeletal fingers dig deeply into the meat of his shoulders. There was a brief sickening feeling of being squeezed through a tight tube even as he spun around, then suddenly he was miles in the air above the ocean—

"Swim with the fishes," a voice hissed in his ear.

It was difficult to breathe. Frigid winds raked at Cowl's billowing robes at that extreme altitude, then gravity took hold, and he began to plummet through the air.

* * *

Feel free to leave a review. I'm mostly working on improving my prose and storytelling, so if you see anything that's off, kindly let me know. Thanks in advance!

PS: Update on my other stories. None of the stories I have posted here are abandoned. _**Death Wish**_ is the closest to an update - I have about 60% of the next chapter completed. I'm not sure if I put this on my author's page but _**The Last Straw** _is being continued as well. I have about 4 chapters for it, but it's been a while and I'm dissatisfied with their overall quality now that I think I've grown more as a writer, so I'm revamping it from scratch. Let me know which story you folks want to see updated quicker, and I'll do my best.

PPS (if there's such a thing): I have two other stories in the works as well - a pure HP one titled _**Mind Meld**_, and an HP/DF crossover titled _**End**_** Game**. The former features a horcrux-Voldemort/Harry Potter fusion working alongside Dumbledore, and is only one chapter in. The latter takes place mostly in Dresdenverse and is set post Cold Days. It features a dimension-traveling Harry Potter meeting up with the likes of Mab and the Gatekeeper, and the repercussions of his magic/abilities/presence in DFverse. It''s already about 5 chapters in (I have to clean it up a bit before putting it up here - God, I'm lazy). I'll toss drabbles up to see which generate the most interest. Soon though, very soon.

Adios!


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